Waiting Room

Coffee on the table guzzles. A pot steaming,
freshly brewed. No one moves to help themselves.
Outside the window rows of cars
will be taken out of spaces into service,
out of service into parts, out of parts into repair,
where electric drills will whir their sounds
into this waiting room.
I am tired.
The three women next to me are too,
with a slow mop to the brow, and a dragging
movement of the eyes,
towards the TV in the corner.
Their stares thicken by the screen
where a woman with blond hair
fixes wicker chairs. She washes their
legs and backs to make them shine.
Scrubbing, soaking, dipping, rinsing,
she will make them last longer...
Longer is what we have together
in a small space with a window. The workers
in blue coverall suites
are sweating, walking, opening,
driving, shutting, pulling, turning--
but not sitting. Not staring at a screen,
or out the window at themselves
where life is just an example
of a function of itself
shuffling, shifting, drilling, walking.

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